


Blowback

by motorghost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 4th of July, Age Difference, Anal, Come get your French on, Daddy Kink, Fireworks, First Time, Georgia, I understand how anal sex works IRL and this is not it lol, Jack speaks French if you didn't know, Kissing, M/M, Not meant to be taken as reality, Porn Some Plot?, Public Blow Jobs, Really well-timed Fireworks, Size Difference, There's French in here, This was for kink, Unrealistic Anal Sex Practices, after graduation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But now Jack is coming. To Madison. To his home. He will celebrate the 4th of July with his relatives and they will eat breakfast with his parents. He will sleep on an air mattress in Bitty's room and they will probably talk about the kiss.</p><p>It’s both too good to be true and the most dread-inducing thing to have ever happened to him."</p><p>Post-Kiss and Madison conjecture! Written in a day because I had FEELINGS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blowback

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't beta-read this, just wanted to get it out! I love the idea of these two polite, anxious, repressed Canadian/Southern boys trying to navigate their way around the event started by The Zimmerman Charm™. Also revealing all of my shameful secret kinks in one go leT'S dO THIS !!!!

‘Weak in the knees’—Bitty has used the term before, but this is the only time he’s actually felt his joints give up and deposit his body in the nearest chair.

He can’t move. He can’t think.

Strike that—all he can do is think. His mind is racing, and that’s another phrase he’d never really experienced firsthand until this moment. His thoughts fly by, one after the other, too fast to catch. Sharpened bits of steel cutting across solid ice.

Then his phone buzzes in his warm hand and he looks down, slides open the message, taps in his passcode. This he does automatically, no thinking required. 

Jack Zimmermann: I’m sorry.

Oh, no. Now the bad thoughts, the ones Bitty remembers very well, slip into the stream. Sorry for what? Was that a mistake? Did Bitty imagine Jack making the first move? Did he pressure Jack into it somehow? Did Jack see him cry and just felt bad for him? Was this just another bizarre branch of Jack’s captainly instincts?

And then:

Jack Zimmermann: For not staying, I mean. Dinner.

Ah, Bitty remembers. Georgia made reservations. Jack doesn’t keep people waiting. Jack doesn’t back out on commitments. 

Jack might just not back out on this.

Of course he wouldn’t, Bitty’s better self replies. Jack never backs out of anything.

Jack might just be all in.

Bitty stops that thought before it goes any further. He does this without thinking. He will always be a hopeful person—he would’ve crushed that crush way back in August if he wasn’t. But he has learned to live, and to think, in a self-preserving manner, like anyone else. And he can’t let thoughts like ‘Jack just might feel the same way about me’ run free. It’s not who he is.

But still.

 

__/ _/ _/_

 

Jack is already back with his parents when Bitty replies. He ran both ways, so he’s still flushed—he hopes he can get his feelings under control before the “I was running” excuse no longer applies. But now Bitty has texted back.

Eric Bittle: It’s okay. Have fun at dinner! We’ll talk later.

Jack is a little relieved and more than a little damn terrified. On the one hand, he needs time to recover. That…moment, was a lot to handle. Even if he did start it. Even if he did end it. Even if he is always, for every moment of his life, all in, all the time.

On the other hand, Bitty probably needs time to recover too, and that could be bad. Jack knows Bitty to be very practical, steady, even when he’s blowing off homework to bake or dancing to Beyonce in his hockey pads—the reason he is always there for everyone is because underneath that freckled Southern skin is cast iron. And underneath Jack’s cast iron is a swirling fire, one that might’ve just burned through any chance he had at being with Bitty for real. Why couldn't he have said something, anything, instead of jumping ten steps ahead by kissing him? What if he scared him off?

Jack’s smile, the smile he’s been sporting from the Haus to the rental car, fades just a little. He watches Samwell pass by the window and the rest of the group respects his silence. Part of it is for Samwell. Most of it is the mental exercises he has to go through just to quell his anxiety before it latches onto his lungs and sends the rest of his body into full blown panic.

He takes out his phone and stares between it and the window all the way to the restaurant. Right before they exit, he sends:

Jack Zimmermann: Okay.

And that has to be enough, right?

 

__/ _/ _/_

 

“Okay?” Bitty repeats out loud. “Okay???”

He sighs hard and leans his head against the shuttle window. No one pays attention to him. They’re all buzzing with post-graduation energy, or stuck in their headphones. No one’s solving this problem but you, Bittle, says someone in Bitty’s head. Sounds a little like Jack’s voice.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

Bitty isn’t just a virgin—his knowledge of how real, mature, functional relationships present is limited to 1) his parents (and that’s not a perfect example), 2) Chowder and Farmer (and they’re both too young and too shy and too out of his peripherals to be of any kind of helpful reference) and 3) Every rom-com, love song and otherwise fictional relationship account that he’s absorbed in the last ten-odd years. Which, with the exception of probably a few truly great albums, are probably not the most practical sources of romantic guidance.

But. Paralyzing fear of the future aside…he still has the vivid memory of Jack Zimmermann’s lips on his own. How tenderly he held Bitty’s face. The way he backed away, clumsy and reluctant, then rushed in again for one last kiss. How Bitty had to _reach up on tip-toes_ to kiss Jack. To kiss _Jack_. Who had kissed him. _First._

Bitty hugs his backpack to cover his huge grin. 

It’s always one more game, says the voice. 

 

__

_/ _/ _/

 

Rookie NHL training is more strenuous than even Jack anticipated, but he is determined to do everything right. He works harder than anyone else. He stays longer than anyone expects. He even dives into getting to know his teammates, taking part in every “extracurricular” that doesn’t involve actual hockey but brings him closer to the Falconers, and to Providence. The town is good to him. His apartment looks over the river. The players are great. Then one night, an alarming thought pops into his head: if he tried hard enough, he could maybe forget Samwell. 

It catches him off guard. Why the fuck would he ever want to forget Samwell? He owes everything to…he couldn’t imagine where’d he’d be if not for…Samwell was… 

Jack opens his phone and looks back at his exchange with Bitty over the past few months: tentative explanations of his feelings and Bitty’s even more tentative agreement, short phone call records in which Bitty stammered a lot and Jack replied almost not at all, a few funny replies to Bitty’s Twitter feed with an anonymous account Jack made just to form another line of communication with the boy he left behind. Then there were the Skype sessions, which to be fair, weren't awkward at all...but neither boy felt comfortable enough to talk about anything deeper than Ransom's new volleyball crush or Shitty's law school hair-pulling. 

It’s not enough, Jack concludes. We aren’t getting to the point. We haven’t said what needs to be said yet. 

Jack knows that there has to be some combination of words that will reassure Bitty that he really, really does like him, and wants to be with him, that Jack thinks he deserves the world. There has to be some gilded phrase that Bitty can hang in his kitchen and look at whenever he feels even a hint of sadness. 

But there are so many other things that need to be said. Things that will puncture that balloon, no matter how Jack puts it. Things that go off in Jack’s heart like carpet bombs: their relationship will have to be a secret, BOOM, it’ll have to be long-distance, BOOM, they’re both still in the closet, BOOM, Jack is a constantly-watched celebrity, BOOM, Bitty has college and his own hockey practice to keep up with, BOOM. 

Bitty’s parents. BOOM. Jack’s incurable anxiety. BOOM. Kent Parson. BOOM. 

That’s why a part of him suggested that forgetting Samwell entirely might be a good thing. That returning to a life of all hockey, all the time, is probably his best bet. He’s great at hockey. He’d make everyone happy. No one would get hurt. 

Except, Jack hasn’t been able to go a single day without thinking about Bitty. Barely a few hours, even. 

He picks up the phone. He dials. 

“Bittle? Hey. Do you think your parents would mind if I came over for the 4th of July?” 

 

__/ _/ _/_

 

Bitty has exactly one hour to get ready for Jack’s arrival. Before that, he was too busy getting his latest vlog out, helping his mother cook and clean and decorate the house, and prepping for summer hockey drills. He’d decided to join a two-month practice camp that was a forty-five minute drive from his house. Just to keep fresh" he’d told his parents. Really, he needed a place where he could stop thinking for a few hours and concentrate on the puck. He got the idea from Jack. If the boy could fail to notice his feelings for Bitty for six months, there might be something to that whole “play ‘til you drop” mentality. 

It doesn’t work for me, Bitty quickly found out. He just thinks of Jack even more, especially when he’s whizzing past defensemen and there’s no Jack on the other side to accept his assist. One day, Bitty eyes one of the older camp members, a dark-haired boy with pale green eyes, tall and powerfully built. Bitty’s shoulder barely grazes the guy’s bicep and a jolt passes through his body. Reminders are everywhere and his happy texts with Jack do nothing to fill the hollowness in his chest. Bitty is determined not to repeat the masochistic episode with Beyonce in Jack's old room, but it's hard to stay away from every Beyonce song ever, and now they're all even more relatable. 

But now Jack is coming. To Madison. To his home. He will celebrate the 4th of July with his relatives and they will eat breakfast with his parents. He will sleep on an air mattress in Bitty's room and sit on the porch Bitty grew up on. They will watch fireworks and probably talk about the kiss. 

It’s both too good to be true and the most dread-inducing thing to have ever happened to him. 

“Jack!” 

Bitty lets the screen door slam shut behind him, but he’s not running. He knows that Coach or Mama could see. He just strides as quickly as possible and mentally berates Jack for hugging him so…thoroughly. 

“Bitty.” And then there’s the way he stares and the way he smiles. “I’ve missed you.” 

“Mama just made about seven pitchers’ worth of sweet tea,” Bitty looks at Jack’s chest when he talks, using a very tinny voice. “Let’s get you some before the others arrive and finish off the whole dang batch.” 

He actually has to force his hand away from Jack’s grip before they walk back to the house. He can trust Jack not to be too hurt by the gesture, given their situation, but he still feels bad. He can't let his feelings distract him...not until they're alone. 

The heat is getting to Jack already, Bitty can tell—he peels off his Falconers’ hat and pushes his hair back. The old Southern house is pale yellow with green shutters and Jack’s imagining a tiny Bitty running around the porch, his parents looking on, maybe some friends, neighbors… 

“Wait. Bittle…what ‘others?’” 

Bitty actually stops to give Jack a pitying look. “Well…I said it was gonna be a party. You didn’t think my mama would know you were coming and NOT invite half of Madison, did you?” 

 

  
_/ _/ _/

 

It’s like a Haus party, only longer and more nerve-wracking, because it starts at 4pm and Jack isn’t allowed to retreat into the safety of his room. He has to smile, shake hands, and chat about sports and Georgia vs. Canada weather and Samwell and his father’s entire career.

It's not so bad. He’s been in the public eye a long time and has had plenty of practice. But whenever he looks over at Bitty, whether he’s laughing with his mothers’ friends or dolling out warm heaps of peach cobbler, Jack thinks of walking over and kissing him, just like he did after graduation. The whole scene has been branded on his mind and now he can't look at Bitty without a fire starting somewhere near his stomach. 

For Bitty’s sake, he has a good time. For Bitty’s sake, he waits until they’re all out in the park and waiting for the fireworks to start before bringing up all the things he has to bring up. 

“So…about that kiss, eh?” 

Bitty coughs into his mint julep. His eyes get so big and so scared so fast that Jack does something he never does—retreats, top speed. 

“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it now.” 

Bitty glances around for a split second before he takes Jack’s hand and pushes out of the crowd. It’s easy for Bitty, small and aerodynamic—Jack is the one who’s constantly apologizing for his shoulders and giving polite smiles to the people Bitty pushes past. No one from their party notices until it's too late. 

Bitty takes them up a hill, one that’s too high and too steep for the more dignified Southern crowd. They pass a few other young people who ignore them in favor of each others’ mouths, and the ones who do notice them, the ones who meet Jack's eyes, those kids immediately transmit a silent promise—I don’t see you, you don’t see me. 

They hike the entire hill, until even Jack is sure that they’re completely safe from prying eyes. There are trees behind and the entire park in front. It’s either a trek into the black Georgia wilderness or the slow descent back to society. He wonders which would be best. 

“I know it’ll be so hard, Jack.” Bitty’s eyes are already full of tears. 

“Bitty, no-” 

“Just hear me out. I _know_ how hard it would be for you, I really do. I just can’t imagine what it would be like to be closeted AND in the NHL AND have to visit your still-in-college boyfriend, secretly, every few weeks—“ 

“I’d come more than every few weeks,” Jack manages to interrupt. 

Bitty smiles with some of that leftover pity. “Jack, darlin’, I haven’t spoken with you for longer'n ten minutes since you left Samwell, and the dang season hasn’t even started yet." 

Jack knows, of course. He’s all fire and energy and Bitty is going to burn up if he allows himself this. He’s going to take this raw sunshine and go and go until there’s nothing but ash. And Bitty doesn't understand, can't understand—Bitty is still a child in ways that Jack is not. Jack can see these thoughts flying through his head but he can't manage to hold onto one long enough to give it words. His jaw clenches in frustration. 

“Please don't be upset. I know it’ll be hard, and I’m not askin’ you to give anything up. I just wanna say…I’m willing, if you are.” Bitty breathes out, hard, like he’s just finished a speech he’s been rehearsing for days. His eyes are so big, and still wet. 

“I’m not…it’s not enough for you, Bits. You deserve…" 

Jack quickly realizes just how bad he is at this and drifts off. He glares at the forest like taking Bitty’s hand and running away is growing as a viable option. 

“I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember, Jack. Do I deserve to be alone?” 

“Mon dieu, non, I—you could find someone else—“ 

“I don’t _want_ anyone else! You’re…you’re the most important person to me'n the world. I’ll never meet anyone else like you, Jack. I love you." 

Jack finally meets Bitty’s eyes. Jack finally thinks of something good to say, but he doesn’t really think it, per se. He just says it. He just goes. 

“It won’t be that hard. It’s like…hockey is hard, but I don’t think about how hard it is while I’m playing. I just play. Because I love hockey. And I love you.” 

Bitty’s still crying when he bursts out laughing. 

Jack is taken aback. “Bittle! I’m serious.” 

“I know! I know…it’s just, you had to use hockey as a…nevermind. Sweet Jesus, nevermind, I get it. I’m honored to be in the same realm as hockey for you.” 

Jack steps forward and takes Bitty’s face in his hands. “At least I can make you laugh.” 

“I laugh too easy,” Bitty snickers, holding Jack’s wrists. “You said so yourself.” 

Jack doesn’t have a reply. He just wants to kiss Bitty. So he does. 

 

__/ _/ _/_

 

Jack has been kissing him for a long time now. Bitty knows he has grass stains on his nice linen shorts, but he thinks that, in the dark, no one will notice. Not with the way this crowd puts away the mint juleps. 

“Thought you said there were gonna be fireworks,” Jack mumbles. 

“Are you settin’ me up for a chirp, Mr. Zimmermann?” 

“You could use the help.” 

Bitty bites Jack’s neck, but it doesn’t go as planned. He thought he was being playful, that Jack would pull away with a laugh or something. 

Instead, Jack moans in his ear. 

He’s never heard Jack moan. It’s not at all like the tacit Jack he knows—it’s overflowing, raw. It’s like a small explosion. Like there’s much more where that came from. 

“You…do that again?” Jack sighs. 

“…Okay.” Bitty feels a bit like he did in Jack’s room when they first kissed. Nothing to say. Just a hot pressure in his belly and the limitless desire for this moment to never, ever end. 

He bites Jack’s neck. He rolls on top of him and straddles Jack’s hips. Jack grabs his waist and grinds up without hesitation. 

This boy he’s pined after for over a year is hard as a rock and writhing beneath him. Jack is all muscles and power and Bitty is small and pent-up from years of denial and the tears from before are still on his cheeks. Jack is a grown adult man, Jack’s been with Kent Parson, Jack had a whole wild life before he met Bitty and Bitty hasn’t even had… 

“God. Jack.” 

Something must’ve shown in his voice or his face, because Jack takes his death-grip off Bitty’s hips and places the softest hands on Bitty’s face. He looks up at him with the deepest blues, blue despite the darkness. The Georgia sky is blessedly clear—even the grass is blue in the moonlight. 

“Was that too much?” 

“No, I just…I’m not sure...I…” 

Jack slides his hands up and down Bitty’s arms, his hips still. “Bittle. We can do whatever you want. All I want is you.” 

Bitty doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to do this right. His tie to Jack could unravel right now, right here, if he makes a mistake...and why wouldn't he? This is not his story. He has Jack splayed and willing beneath him but he still can’t turn off the part of his brain that’s telling him that this moment is just not who he is. He’s not the lucky Southern boy who gets to ride off into the sunset with a gorgeous, dorky, passionate Canadian athlete. 

He’s the timid closet case who bakes pies in lieu of real love and falls asleep with a stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest every night. 

Bitty starts crying again. 

“Bitty.” 

Jack pulls Bitty’s face to his own, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, maybe it’s the intuitive connection they’ve established, playing so many games on the same line, but he says what Bitty needs to hear: 

“Let me take care of you for once.” 

Bitty nods immediately, and slides off of Jack, relinquishing control. Jack half-leans over Bitty and kisses him, softly, nuzzles him until his mouth opens and Jack’s tongue slides against Bitty’s tongue. A strangled whine dies in Bitty’s throat. Jack softly lays over him, most of his weight pressing Bitty into the cool earth, their groins massaging together slowly, warmly. It's comforting and incredibly hot at the same time. Jack lets out small, low noises every time Bitty's legs move up and down his sides, and Bitty is very eager to move against Jack, as if to reassure himself that, yes, he's still there, and they can touch each other as much as they want to. They spend long minutes, just like that, neither making a move in either direction. Jack will lean back to stare at Bitty and brush his hair away from his face before slowly licking back inside his mouth. Bitty's reminded of the slow and languorous way Jack eats his pie-- 

And then anxiety melts in the face of white-hot desire and Bitty puts strong and sure fingers in Jack’s hair. 

“You wanna take care of me, sweetheart? You can start by taking off your shirt.” 

Jack leans back to meet Bitty’s eyes, but that’s the only hesitating he does. He leans back and pulls off his shirt, gets stuck for a second, has to pause and catch himself. Bitty is already shirtless by the time he gets himself free and now he has that to take in. 

Bitty, small and toned and vulnerable between Jack’s big thighs. Bitty, glowing like a sunset and slinking his arms above his head with a lusty grin. Bitty, nodding his hips up into Jack’s groin and biting his lower lip like a— 

“Incroyable,” Jack whispers. 

Then they’re kissing again. 

And Bitty gets his hands under Jack’s jeans and grabs two handfuls. He pulls Jack in until the big hockey star groans like an animal and pumps his hips hungrily. 

Jack arches his back and Bitty can’t believe how good he looks—he actually picks his head up to watch his own hands grope Jack’s ass while Jack pushes into it. 

Then Jack nips and kisses and licks his way down Bitty's chest and suddenly Bitty is fully naked, on the grass, in the Georgia summertime. Jack keeps his clothes in a neat heap with his own, but he leaves his jeans on, just pushes them enough to let his cock free from the coarse denim. He catches Bitty with his jaw dropped and laughs, cupping the boy's face and stroking a thumb over his cheek. 

“Bits, you have no idea…Spring C, those _shorts_ …did you even know what you were doing to me?” 

Bitty blushes. It's dark, but Jack knows he's blushing. “Had to shower with you after every practice and game, so we're even, mister." 

Jack chuckles as he licks Bitty's hip bones, inching his way closer to Bitty's cock. Bitty knows what's coming but that doesn't stop the shuddering gasp when Jack licks Bitty’s cock into his mouth. He moans, like the taste is just that good, like he's been imagining this moment for awhile and now it's really here. Jack is so thrilled to be taking Bitty's cock in his mouth and that alone makes Bitty’s temperature jump a hundred degrees. There are beads of sweat on both of them and only some of it is due to the sweltering summer heat.

He uncontrollably jerks into Jack’s throat. He covers his mouth with his hand until Jack drags it away—then he can’t help puncture the night with little ‘oh, oh, oh’ noises, and syrupy little whines, things that make Jack hum like a nuclear power plant. Somehow having his wrist in Jack's strong grip and Jack's other hand pushing down his hips gives Bitty the freedom to let go.

Jack is rough, and dominating, and fuck, he can't get enough of it. He wants Jack to keep his wrists pinned to the grass while he bobs his head slowly up and down, controlling his cock with his lips and tongue alone, until that's not enough, and Jack works his big hand up and down Bitty's cock, in time with his sucking mouth. Bitty worries his lip into redness and whines. Jack looks up at him with those sleepy eyes. Bitty's cock pokes the inside of his cheek before he pulls away, pulling a sharp cry from Bitty.

Jack knows to back off, to let Bitty squirm while he teases his perineum. He knows Bitty is a virgin and he wants this to last. He uses Bitty's pre-cum and his own saliva to slick his middle finger and slide it, slowly, gently, into Bitty's twitching asshole. 

“Oh my goodness,” Bitty whines, and Jack smiles as Bitty instinctively lifts his legs. “Jack!” 

“You taste so good, Bits.” 

"Mmn," Bitty shivers from head to toe. “Tell me again.” 

Jack looks up as he crooks his finger against Bitty’s prostate, making his hips jump. “Yeah?” 

“Nnn...Please!” 

Jack is impulsive, but he's good at taking direction. “You taste _so good_. You’re shivering, Bitty, I can feel it around my finger. You're so tight. You’re taking it so well. Relax a bit, chéri. Détends-toi. Tout va bien.” 

“Lord--!” Bitty thought he could take the sight of Jack, huge and dark-haired and cut from marble, sucking his cock and fingering him in the moonlight, but he can’t handle that low voice scratching out the most delicious Québécois imaginable. His Captain Voice had more than one use, it seems. 

Jack licks the soft muscle of Bitty’s inner thigh while his fingers work him open, slowly. Sometimes he pulls on Bitty's cock with his tight lips, but he keeps most of his attention on Bitty's asshole. Jack's free hand glides up and down Bitty’s writhing torso and Bitty takes hold of Jack's hand with both of his own. Bitty can't take how fucking deliciously slow Jack goes, loves how tight he feels around Jack’s fingers, how Jack seems to know just the right moment to add another. They were in sync the whole time, he realizes. You don’t have to know you’re on the same page to actually be there. 

“Jack, more. Another.” 

“ _Bits_ ,” Jack exhales, hotly, like a prayer. He pushes a third finger into Bitty, knowing it will be uncomfortable, and seizes up when Bitty yowls. Jack isn’t the only athlete here—he’s not the only one whose body is used to taking pain like a gift, with that sweet chaser of adrenaline turning every nerve ending into an electrical socket. He knows he should ask if Bitty is ready, but it seems redundant. He can listen to Bitty's body the way that he listens for him on the ice. It's beyond listening, beyond watching. Jack meets Bitty's eyes and they're both biting their lips and they both lurch forward at the same time to kiss because they just can't _not_ not kiss after seeing each others' faces like that. 

The fireworks decide to go off, finally, hilariously. Bitty can’t help but grin and grind down on Jack’s hand, a movement that makes Jack search even more for his prostate. 

Bitty finally takes his hands off Jack’s head and rubs his own chest. He pinches his own nipples. Jack almost chokes. He realizes that he's only ever seen and associated Bitty with the most wholesome of situations. Glowing in the kitchen with a pie in his oven-mitted hands and a blue apron tied neatly around his tiny waist. Laughing with the boys in the locker room and wearing a towel as conservatively as possible. Sipping a pumpkin spice latte in a pressed button-up shirt and a scarf the size of his entire chest. Sure, he's tripped down stairs looking at Bitty in shorts, but even that held a glaze of innocence in his memory.

Now he was looking up at Bitty, Eric Bittle, past his toned and writhing stomach, past the swells of his pecs with their light dusting of blonde hair, right up to his flushed face and open, panting mouth, with those heavy brown eyes staring down at him with such _heat_. His fingers pushing, roughly now, in and out of his ass. This Southern gentleman, rubbing his own erect nipples and whimpering for Jack to... _what?_

“Fuck me, Jack. Jack, honey, please fuck me.” 

Jack lurches against the ground. He’s fucking the inside of his own pants at this point and Bitty’s demand is like a dam breaking. He leans back on his heels and pushes his jeans down to his knees. Bitty gets a momentary look—Jack, stunning Jack, arching back with his hard cock bobbing against his stomach—before Jack is slicking himself with his own spit and working the head into Bitty's asshole. 

Bitty keens for all the world to hear. “Ohh, gawd, _Jesus_ …” 

“That’s it, baby.” It sounds adorable and pornographic, a combination Bitty never thought he’d make. His little French 'bebe' was definitely something Bitty was going to both chirp him for later and masturbate to once Jack had gone. 

“You’re doing so good. You look so…Bitty, spread your legs for me, _mon dieu_ …mon chéri...” 

The hint of possessiveness in Jack’s voice makes Bitty open his eyes. Jack is looking down at him with a deep frown, like right before he takes a shot, like in the moment before he scores, when he knows what he’s done and he’s still not finished. It's a good look on Jack. He's working into him so slow, so considerate. When his cockhead finally pierces inside, Jack gasps, and looks down at Bitty. 

" _Fuck._ You feel so good, baby." 

Bitty feels something rush up from his toes to his throat. He wants to lift his chin and arms up, expose himself as much as possible, let Jack take whatever he wants. He lifts his legs in the air, and so also his hips, making Jack sink into him. He moans. He looks right the fuck at him. 

“Like that, daddy?” 

Jack goes nuclear. Hearing Bitty say ‘fuck’ was a lot—this almost makes him stop. He’s double-teamed Kenny, he’s been blindfolded and spanked, but now he’s blushing uncontrollably and staring, dumbstruck. 

Bitty laughs, delighted with his own perversion. He’s emanating the sun. 

“Come on. Fuck me, daddy.” 

Jack holds Bitty’s wrists to the grass and thrusts all the way in, still slow. Bitty’s smile gives way to an open-mouthed cry that threatens to drown out the fireworks. 

“Fuck, Bitty… _shit_.” Jack fucks him deep and steady, at first, staring at Bitty’s eyes, his red mouth, folding him in half with the weight of his hips. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand why this is so hot, but Bitty loves it and so does he and that's all that matters. Every thrust is so slow and so good. Jack puts his face in the earth beside Bitty's head and pants against the grass. 

"Ahh, yeah...yes, daddy...fuck me--!"

Bitty is gone. Obliterated. He can’t do anything but let out high-pitched moans directly into Jack's ear whenever his cock moves faster or harder or brushes his prostate just right. His little legs hook over Jack’s back but he doesn't have to urge Jack on by squeezing them. Jack is already picking up the pace, just enough to bring a little pain without seriously damaging Bitty's first time.

Then Jack leans back and takes both of Bitty’s legs in one hand, holds them to one side so he can fuck him without interference, so he can see the way Bitty’s ass juts out when he’s almost on his side. He's a perfect little S-curve and Jack picks up the pace just enough to make Bitty's high-pitched noises beat in time with his thrusting hips. Bitty's eyes are squeezed shut because seeing Jack like this is too much too soon and he's already close to coming without his cock being touched.

His free hand finds its way to Bitty’s mouth and Bitty doesn’t hesitate—he sucks Jack’s fingers into his mouth and stares up at him through heavy lids. "I'm gonna...Jack!" 

“Oh, _fuck_ , chéri…” Jack’s hips move faster. “You—I’m gonna make you _come_ , Bits.” 

“ _Please_ , daddy, make me come... _Jack_. Fuck me, daddy.” 

Jack seizes Bitty’s cock and with a few short strokes, Bitty’s crying into the grass, his whole body convulsing. His asshole contracts around Jack’s cock and Jack, through a Herculean effort, manages not to come immediately, but thrusts several more times just so he can prolong the view of Bitty’s little body bouncing back and forth with the force of it, his choked whines hiccuping out of him. 

Then he leans forward, elbows on the grass, and moans in Bitty’s ear while he empties himself all over Bitty’s stomach. Bitty’s soft hands, those skilled hands, run up and down Jack’s large back while Jack catches his breath. Bitty can’t grin big enough. 

“You…where’d that come from?” Jack gazes at Bitty like he's never seen him before. 

Bitty blushes all over. Jack grins at that. “I—I’ve watched things, you know! You don’t have to be experienced to know a thing or two these days!” 

“So you…liked that?” 

Bitty laughs softly, out of breath himself. He slinks a hand down to his stomach, mixes his and Jack’s cum on his fingers, and holds it up to his lips while Jack stares. 

Jack leans forward and sucks Bitty’s fingers before he can get them in his mouth. 

“Oh, _gosh_. You’re going to be the death of me.” 

“ _Et toi_ ,” Jack whispers. 

 

__

_/ _/ _/

 

Jack taps open the Skype window and there's Bitty, wearing his red plaid and grinning from ear to ear. He's back in his room at the Haus and the sight makes Jack a little wistful, all the way out there in Providence.

"Aww, what's that face, sugar?"

He can't hide anything from Bitty and he doesn't ever want to. "Just, you in that room...I wish I'd been with you while we were living under the same roof."

"Oh, honey. That would've been nice. But now we're together, and I'm happier than I've ever been, and _you're in the NHL._ The future's gonna be all good things."

Jack chuckles. It's strange how often he takes that for granted. When you have anxiety, it's easy to forsake the blessings of today for the worries of tomorrow. He's pretty sure his therapist said something like that to him once. Or maybe it was Shitty.

"I'm..."

Jack struggles with his words. He always has, probably always will. Thoughts get jumbled in with his feelings and stopper his throat. But Bitty is warm and kind and understanding, and he smiles patiently whenever Jack can't express himself immediately, happy to wait for his boyfriend to find his perfect words.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

And boy is it always worth the wait.

"I love you too, Jack."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/critique are welcome and encouraged!! Always looking for feedback on my writing, so anything helps. :)


End file.
